Out of the Dust
by The Winged Lion of Coruscant
Summary: An encounter between a sweeper and an emperor, or the last of the Time Lords. The Doctor doesn't want to do this anymore; he's only there to check in on him. Post-EoT. Master/Doctor slash - Simm/10. A prequel of sorts to Thoughts on Consistency.


A/N: So, apparently I have a thing for an extremely emotionally detached Doctor. Don't ask. ;D This can be read as a sort of prequel to Thoughts on Consistency (or not; your choice completely ;D). Also, I _will _update Logical Conclusions later today. Really. ;D This plotbunny just bit me last night and wouldn't leave me alone. Sorry!

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Out of the Dust

It was a silent corridor – the kingdom of dust motes and flickering lights and peeling paint, located inside of the palace of a far greater ruler. A thin layer of grime covered the walls and a carpet of dust lay on the wooden floor. A tall, lanky, brown-haired man, wearing the white linen shirt and black pants of the palace staff, was sweeping the floor. He whistled a tuneless melody softly to himself as he worked, dragging his broom across the floor aimlessly, doing more to spread the dust than to clean it up.

After a while, another man stepped out of the shadows, devolving from darkness into a living being. A dark gold crown rested on top of his dark hair, a tangible reminder of his dominance over all creatures within a three-planet range. The emperor of the entire system, lurking in the dark in his own palace. He stood, arms crossed, and watched the sweeper's performance with a critical air; finally, he spoke. "You missed a spot – right there." His voice was completely toneless, but as he spoke a lazy smile spread across his face.

"Yes – yes, I suppose I did," the brown-haired man replied, continuing to sweep his patch of floor determinedly.

The emperor rolled his eyes. "Doctor." The word was a low hiss, carrying a set of inflections impossible to identify properly: so much meaning conveyed in one word, and all of it utterly indecipherable to the rest of the universe, save for the man to whom it was addressed.

The Doctor turned to face him, gave a slight nod, and answered, in an absolutely neutral tone, notable only for its dissimilarity to the other man's voice, "Master."

"Your disguises are getting worse and worse," the Master replied easily, stepping closer to the Doctor. He practically flowed across the dust-coated floor as he moved towards him.

The Doctor leaned his broom against his wall. "I wouldn't say that; took you long enough to figure out it was me."

The Master laughed at that, a sound bubbling with razor-sharp mirth. "Long enough? Doctor, _I've caught you_."

"Have you really?" the Doctor asked dispassionately, raising one eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm _very_ sure," the Master replied, a smirk curling his lips. He stepped forward again, until he was barely inches from the Doctor.

"You're not," the Doctor insisted. He held the Master's gaze evenly, his brown eyes matching the Master's own, lighter pair.

"Yes, I _am_ sure I'm sure," the Master replied. For a moment, his expression flickered to something more annoyed; then he smirked again. "You're mine now." His words carried an equal degree of menace and promise.

The Doctor shuddered and closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. When he opened them again, though, they were completely clear. He swallowed once, and then spoke. "You _idiot_." For the first time, his voice contained a degree of emotion: there was a hint of impatience, of anger, even of disappointment in the insult. "You have no idea – Rassilon, Master, you have _no idea_. I was completely willing to be – to be _yours_, and then you _left_ me. Twice! You left me _twice_. I was going to die, Master. I – I nearly _did_ regenerate. Where would you be, then? You pushed things too far, Master." He shook his head. "I'm not doing this anymore."

"No?" The Master leaned in, brushed one hand against the Doctor's face. To his surprise, the Doctor didn't pull away. The Master frowned, unsure of how to continue. It was completely disorienting, as if his partner had refused to complete the steps of a well-known, oft-practiced dance. "Then why are you here?" he asked, trying to regain firm ground. "The Doctor – savior of worlds. I conquer, you free. We make a nice team, don't you think?" His hand was still resting on the Doctor's face, so he tried running his thumb once down one of the Doctor's sideburns. Though he discovered – to his delight – that they _were_ as soft as they looked, the action failed to prompt a rise from the Doctor. He frowned again.

"I'm not here to save the world," the Doctor replied. He stepped back at last, a careful, deliberate move, reclaimed his broom, and resumed sweeping. "I'm just here to check on you," he replied after a moment, without looking at the Master.

"'Just to _check_ on me'?" The Master raised one eyebrow. "My dear Doctor –"

"Don't."

"My dear Doctor," the Master continued, his emphasis on the word "dear" transforming it from an endearment into a cruelly twisting knife, "you could never _resist _trying to save me." He spread his arms. "_Go on_. What are you waiting for, Doctor?"

"Nothing," the Doctor replied. "I'm waiting for – nothing."

The Master's arms snapped back down to his sides. He didn't bother hiding his anger this time. Instead, he reached forward and shoved the Doctor up against the wall, one hand splayed on his chest, right between the other Time Lord's hearts. "What are you doing?" His voice was truly furious, now: not sarcastic, not challenging, but angry – afraid. The Master hated being afraid.

The Doctor closed his eyes, refusing to meet the Master's gaze this time. "I – I'm doing _nothing_, Master. Nothing at all."

"Why?"

"I don't – really, there's nothing. No reason – no ulterior motive." His voice was strained.

The Master released his hold on the Doctor, but didn't step back. "What do you want?"

The Doctor opened his eyes again. "I … don't know." He paused and seemed to think for a moment. "You, I suppose. Still. You haven't managed to rid me of that yet, though I suppose you can still try."

The Master almost smirked again, but his expression faltered, then was gone entirely. He looked almost contemplative – chin tucked to the side, both eyebrows raised slightly, his piercing eyes studying the Doctor carefully – when he said, "Still, Doctor? What _can_ I do that would finally stop you from –"

"I'm not telling you," the Doctor interrupted him abruptly. "You can figure it out for yourself, I imagine."

The Master leaned forward and extended his hand to touch the Doctor's face again. This time, though, instead of a seductive caress, he simply cupped the Doctor's cheek. "Yeah. I probably can." He leaned in, then, and kissed the Doctor. It was a soft kiss, with the intensity of a flash of lightning: electricity flowing between the two of them freely, through their veins like time itself. When they broke apart, he added, "Not today, though."

The Doctor nodded. "Not tomorrow?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

The Doctor nodded again. "Follow me?" he offered. "I have a TARDIS."

"All right."

The emperor left with the sweeper, and the corridor was empty again.


End file.
